two dry Martinis. And I
want them at once--do you understand me? Don't stop to get me any
butter plates or finger-bowls--I want two cock-tails, just as quick as
you can carry them!"

Dinner was an important event to Major Venable--the most important in
life. The younger man humbly declined to make any suggestions, and sat
and watched while his friend did all the ordering. They had some very
small oysters, and an onion soup, and a grouse and asparagus, with some
wine from the Major's own private store, and then a romaine salad.
Concerning each one of these courses, the Major gave special
injunctions, and throughout his conversation he scattered comments upon
them: "This is good thick soup--lots of nourishment in onion soup. Have
the rest of this?--I think the Burgundy is too cold. Sixty-five is as
cold as Burgundy ought ever to be. I don't mind sherry as low as
sixty.--They always cook a bird too much--Robbie Walling's chef is the
only person I know who never makes a mistake with game."

All this, of course, was between comments upon the assembled
millionaires. There was Hawkins, the corporation lawyer; a shrewd
fellow, cold as a corpse. He was named for an ambassadorship--a very
efficient man. Used to be old Wyman's confidential adviser and buy
aldermen for him.--And the man at table with him was Harrison,
publisher of the Star; administration newspaper, sound and
conservative. Harrison was training for a cabinet position. He was a
nice little man, and would make a fine splurge in Washington.--And that
tall man coming in was Clarke, the steel magnate; and over there was
Adams, a big lawyer also--prominent reformer--civic righteousness and
all that sort of stuff. Represented the Oil Trust secretly, and went
down to Trenton to argue against some reform measure, and took along
fifty thousand dollars in bills in his valise. "A friend of mine got
wind of what he was doing, and taxed him with it," said the Major, and
laughed gleefully over the great lawyer's reply--"How did I know but I
might have to pay for my own lunch?"--And the fat man with him--that
was Jimmie Featherstone, the chap who had inherited a big estate. "Poor
Jimmie's going all to pieces," the Major declared. "Goes down town to
board meetings now and then--they tell a hair-raising story about him
and old Dan Waterman. He had got up and started a long argument, when
Waterman broke in, 'But at the earlier meeting you argued directly to
the contrary, Mr. Feath